


Highway Star

by sarahmonious



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Racing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 20:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahmonious/pseuds/sarahmonious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rules of the road: trying to race Dean Winchester is definitely a bad idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Highway Star

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2007. Title and excerpt from Deep Purple's "Highway Star." And if you're a car enthusiast, I'm sorry for probably botching all the specs and whatnot, oh God.

_Nobody gonna take my car  
I'm gonna race it to the ground  
Nobody gonna beat my car  
It's gonna break the speed of sound  
Oooh it's a killing machine  
It's got everything  
Like a driving power big fat tires  
And everything  
  
I love it and i need it  
I bleed it yeah it's a wild hurricane  
Alright hold tight  
I'm a highway star_  
  
  
  
  
It wasn’t the fact that they were down to their last hundred in cash, really, because as much of a nuisance as that was, a general ass kicking of sleazy, overly egotistical morons playing pool at the local bar wasn’t just profitable, it was damn enjoyable. It wasn’t even the fact that the past two hunts had forced them to the library for an obscene amount of time, which, in the end, hadn’t benefited them in the  _least_. And, really, it wasn’t even that this morning while shaving Dean found a very small cluster fucking  _gray hairs_  at his temple, because, Jesus, he’d been waiting for those to spring up ever since Sam started kindergarten.   
  
What it was, really, was driving through Bumfuck, Nowhere, with rows and rows, and miles and miles of corn and soybean and wheat and  _no_ , Sam said,  _that’s actually barley_. Dean promptly told Sam to shut the hell up.   
  
And maybe it was a combination of the other stuff too.  
  
In any case, the redundancy was only starting to get a little bit tiring. Dean wasn’t a fan of large cities in the slightest, but he was one more rickety barn and rusted silo away from insanity.   
  
That, and Sam was staring at him.  
  
" _What_ ," he huffed.  
  
"I was just picturing you about fifty years from now with your face stuck like that," Sam mused indifferently. "You’ll make a really great crotchety old man someday."  
  
"I’m going to make your face  _stuck like that_  if you don’t stop staring," Dean snapped. Sam just shrugged, an amused look on his face, and turned to pull the map out of the glove compartment.   
  
"Where the hell are we, anyway," Dean muttered, drumming his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. "And if you say ‘The middle of nowhere’ I swear to God I really am going to punch you."   
  
"About twenty miles out of Nappanee," said Sam, ignoring him. "Though it isn’t going to get much better when we get there. It’s a pretty small town."   
  
Dean slumped further into his seat.   
  
About five miles on down the road and Dean’s excruciating boredom was put on hold as he watched another car inch its way slowly forward in his rearview mirror. Sucker was coming up behind him  _fast_ ; Dean was already pushing 85.   
  
He reached for the beat-up box of tapes at Sam’s feet - making a big point to act like he wasn’t even looking at the road, because Sam would get all snappy and skittish as a result which amused the hell out of Dean - and rummaged around, finally grabbing a well-worn cassette of Deep Purple, when sure enough— "Dean."  
  
"Dude, I know what—"  
  
"No," Sam said with an eerie calm, staring at the passenger side mirror instead of Dean. "Check it out."  
  
And hell if those assholes in his rearview were nearly on top of his back bumper.   
  
"The fuck?" he said, head whipping back and forth from his rearview to looking out the back window. "What the hell do they think they’re doing?"  
  
"Uh," was all Sam could muster, because the car riding their ass made a sharp turn of the wheel and was suddenly right beside them on the narrow two-lane road.   
  
Dean took one look at the car driving neck-and-neck with them and made a deep noise of annoyance in the back of his throat. "Oh God, you have  _got_  to be kidding me."  
  
It was one of those new sleek and slender models, all fiberglass frame and dazzling LED’s that were all the fucking rage with dumbshits who most probably wouldn’t know the difference of the interworkings of a small block V-8 from a six-cylinder even  _with_  a manual, and that just pissed Dean off.   
  
The person shifted gears next to them in an obviously deliberate manner, and Dean cringed as the substituted turbo muffler whined with a loud, throaty vibration that sounded like someone had stuffed an overlarge potato into the pipe and left it there. It rode low to the ground and the huge spoiler on the back was bordering on fucking ridiculous. Dean huffed loudly, feeling offended to the point of retaliation. Even Sam had his brows drawn together, a look of disdain on his face.   
  
He pushed the pedal to the floor, thoroughly enjoying the deep and heavy rumble of his baby’s own big block 454 with an Edelbrock intake and 350 transmission with a real fuckin’ dual exhaust system, and yeah, suck on  _that_  you pansy ass son of a bitch.   
  
The car fell behind for only a few moments and then slowly inched forward yet again, but kept the same pace as them. Dean growled loudly in frustration.   
  
"I swear, I’m going to run this asshole off the  _road_  if he keeps this up," he muttered, squinting to try to see through the windows that were tinted completely black. If Dean was gonna give him the finger, he wanted to make damn sure this guy could actually see it.   
  
Sam laughed suddenly, eliciting a glare from Dean.   
  
"He’s—" he shook his head, a slight look of amazement on his face, "Dean, he’s trying to race you."   
  
" _What_ ," Dean said. "Is he  _blind_?"   
  
"No. Just cocky," Sam replied. "You two would probably get along great."  
  
"Shut up and help me keep an eye out," he said, and for one moment he thought Sam was going to piss on his parade and list off every good reason  _not_  to give in, but the corner of Sam’s mouth was twitching and Dean would have never believed it if he didn’t actually see it himself that Sam was  _smirking_. "And hang on," Dean said, his voice low and rough, and gunned the engine.  
  
He gripped the steering wheel for all it was worth, and it felt as if every inch in his body was thrumming with adrenaline. The corn and wheat and whatever the hell else became a continuous gold-and-green blur, and Sam leaned forward slightly to see the distance that lay ahead of them better, watching out for cops, or other cars, or, hell, maybe even cows, and wouldn’t that be the most hilarious thing  _ever_ , slamming headlong into a freaking cow in the middle of Rural Hell Hole, USA.   
  
A glance in the rearview showed that the guy had fallen behind a significant amount, but was again slowly starting to creep forward. Dean kept his foot steady on the pedal, but, struck with a sudden and really stupid idea, moved the steering wheel barely an inch to the left, and began gaining ground over the middle of the two solid yellow lines.   
  
Sam sucked in a breath, but said nothing.  
  
As a result to Dean’s minor road block, the car behind them started swerving and weaving, slight, but enough to make Dean’s hackles raise; one small bump to their back bumper and the outcome would be worse than mowing down a cow in the middle of the highway.  
  
"Dean—" Sam said, his voice rising, starting to tell him just that, but Dean didn’t want to hear it.  
  
"I know, I know!" he snapped. "Just… don’t get your panties in a twist, dude." He eased the gas pedal down even further, the engine roaring and the frame vibrating under the strain. Sam shot him a nervous glance.  
  
"Don’t do it if you can’t, man, it’s not worth it." Dean heard the unspoken warning, and glanced at the speedometer, which had just passed 107.   
  
"She can take it," he said, tight-lipped.  
  
"Can you?"  
  
Dean paused, managing only a half a second to shoot Sam a sneer of complete disbelief.   
  
"I cannot  _believe_  you just asked me that, you bitch."   
  
Sam’s face turned sullen and he managed to shrug through tense shoulders. "Just thought I should ask," he muttered.  
  
Christ, this fucker was unrelenting. Dean had stabled his speed out now to where he kept a steady distance away from him, but the guy probably couldn’t get it through his thick skull that his piece-of-shit car was no match for the Impala. Dean didn’t know how long he could keep this up.  
  
"We’re just under ten miles out of town," Sam said, as if reading his thoughts. "We gotta—"  
  
"Yeah, I know."  
  
"There’s a few beer bottles in the back…." Sam said, twisting around.  
  
Dean snorted. "Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?"  
  
"Maybe." Sam said, giving a lopsided smile. "As a last resort, you know, if things get bad."  
  
They ascended a small hill, big enough to be unable to see anything on the other side, but small enough to maintain their bordering-on-ridiculous speed. They reached the top and started downward, Dean letting gravity pull the car a few miles per hour faster, and that’s when he saw him.  
  
"Shitfuck!" Dean yelped, not exactly slamming on the brake, but giving them enough pressure to send the Impala fishtailing a little. He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles were stark white and he felt like his heart had jumped into his throat.   
  
A cop car. About half a mile from them, leisurely making his way towards their manly macho showdown. If they got arrested for  _racing_ , after everything else, Dean would kill himself out of sheer embarrassment.   
  
"Shitshitshit _shit_ ," was Sam’s steady mantra, his foot pushing down on his own invisible brake. "Slow down, slow  _down_!"   
  
"What do you think I’m tryin’ to do!" Dean shouted in reply.   
  
"Here! Pull in here!" Sam pointed wildly at one narrow dirt road opening in the middle of a field of corn. Dean eased off the brake slightly and pulled the wheel sharply to the right, mowing down a large section of corn as they barreled down the road, shucks flying everywhere and dirt swirling, obscuring their vision. Finally, the Impala came to a slamming halt, and Dean would have been really amused that Sam’s nose had almost smashed into the dash if not for the fact that he himself might have needed a change of underwear.   
  
They sat breathing heavily for a moment.   
  
And then heard a lengthy screeching of tires.  
  
And a siren.   
  
They turned to each other in unison and grinned.   
  
Dean quietly popped the door open and got out, Sam following behind him. They had gone a good distance down the narrow road, and by the time they got to the road’s edge and peered to the right down the far stretch of road around the remaining stalks of corn, the guy already had his window rolled down with the not-so-kindly officer almost screaming into his face, his hand on his gun holster.   
  
Out of the corner of his eye Dean saw Sam fall backwards on the ground, his hands barely covering his mouth, his shoulders shaking in silent mirth. When Sam gave a little snort, that was more than enough for Dean, and he found himself doubled over, one hand clutching his stomach and the other wiping tears from his eyes.   
  
"Oh, oh God," Sam said, trying to catch his breath. "Let’s—we’ve got to come back here again. Buy him a beer, or something."   
  
" _Now_  you’re talkin’," Dean wheezed and grabbed Sam’s hand, pulling him up from the ground. They meandered towards the car, knowing to stay hidden for a little bit, and yeah, he may have given his baby a longer stroke than needed, his fingertips sliding lightly over warm, sleek metal, but he sure as hell grinned like an idiot when he swore he saw Sam doing the exact same thing. 


End file.
